


whiskey x and x wine

by gomicchi



Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: Drunk Sex, M/M, Manipulation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-12
Updated: 2015-04-12
Packaged: 2018-03-22 13:59:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3731446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gomicchi/pseuds/gomicchi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>ging is isolated, pent up and lost in a half empty bottle of fire whiskey. pariston is just a phone call and a reckless thirty minute drive away.</p>
            </blockquote>





	whiskey x and x wine

ging prefers the company of animals to people. he prefers _skeletons_ to people. he prefers artifacts and crumbling stone structures built by ancient civilizations of people whose work he can admire but he never actually has to meet. he prefers literally anything in the entire known world (poison lizard-frogs, deadly booby-trapped ruins, cotton mouth, blisters, fever dreams and every near death experience he’s ever had) to pariston hill. or so he tells himself.

 

it’s too much to ask to never have to feel the cloying, sticky film of pariston’s aura again but it’s a relaxing thought as ging downs another shot of bottom shelf whiskey. he’s never tasted anything so awful but the cheap, probably hazardous burn is exactly what he’s looking for. the troubling thing, however, is that he’s thinking about paris at all. _paris?_  shit.

 

ging rubs his hand over his face and slams his shot glass against the slivered wood of the bar. another drink. the couple sitting a few stools down side eye ging’s harsh manners so he flings dead-language curses at them and gets himself thrown out on his ass. _again_. different bar, different town, same bullshit.

 

hands deep in his pockets, belongings slung over his shoulder in a patched up dufflebag, ging stumbles down the cobblestone road. directionless, frustrated and itching for a fight.

 

as he walks his hand finds something in his pocket which he idly fingers and pulls out. without really thinking, he holds the device next to his ear and within seconds a sickly sweet voice is tweeting against his temple.

 

“the _fuck_ do you want, paris?”

 

“ging, turn your phone the other way, i can’t hear you.”

 

ging pulls the phone away from his ear, curses and corrects his error.

 

“-such a stupid invention. only good for annoying people... what do you want?”

 

“ging,” paris laughs, a hollow bell sound, “ _you_ called _me_ so that’s really my line, wouldn’t you say?”

 

“as if i would do something like that. you _want_ something. _what_? just say it. cut the crap.” ging doesn’t exactly slur but he sounds different in ways that only a skilled manipulator would pick up on. the inflection. the turn of phrase. the clip of his words. pariston can practically smell the whiskey on his breath and it delights him.

 

“my, my, you sound as though you’ve been drinking. how _irresponsible_ ,” paris takes a delicate sip of the finest, oldest wine money can buy, imported from the azian continent, “should i be concerned?”

 

“don’t you _dare_. ‘m fine. you need to talk about work though, you _shit_. so let’s fuckin’ talk. where are you?” ging looks up at the moonless sky, identifies a dozen constellations. his vision is a little blurred and his balance tilted but it’s nothing he hasn’t dealt with a hundred times before. he’s just gotta remember where he parked his bike. five paces left from under the noiro star cluster.

 

pariston crosses one leg over the other and closes his eyes with a sigh. he bites his lip and runs a slender hand through his soft hair.

 

“i’m in my penthouse, of course. where else would i be? you’re the poetic wanderer, after all. i, on the other hand, enjoy the simple comforts of home.”

 

the only thing simple about pariston’s apartment is the design concept. sleek and modern, pristine angles and open space. dozens of windows that look down on the twinkling city of ants and pawns. it’s easily the most expensive and sought after property in york new city. ging absolutely abhors it and on several occasions has gone out of his way to break pricey amenities and "artistic" pieces.

 

“figures. you entertainin’ anyone?” ging asks, tone lacking in the subtly his word choice might have tried at.

 

“careful, ging, your sense of humor is showing. _very_ risky.” pariston is practically glowing at the fortuitous turn of events. had he known three hours ago that ging freecss would be giving him a booty call tonight he would have called his tailor.

 

after reuniting with his bike, ging kicks the start and summons his aura, infusing the engine with his nen. he throws a leg over the body and settles against the worn leather seat.

 

“i’ll be there in thirty. don’t try anything stupid or i’ll kick your ass twice as hard.” with that, ging hangs up the mobile, slips it back into his pocket and takes off towards york new city. for anyone else the trip would takes days. ging’s ingenuity is good for solving all sorts of problems.

 

* * *

 

it’s 2 a.m when ging leaves his bike in one of the few open v.i.p stalls of the underground parking garage and greets the elevator concierge with the most tense, aggressive body language the boy has ever seen. ging curtly explains to the nervous employee that he’s going all the way to the top and he doesn’t want to hear a goddamn word while they wait. it’s a long damn ride and ging can barely keep his aura contained. he pulls a flask from one of his many hidden pockets and takes a swig every minute or so to get his buzz back. he isn’t sure he’ll be able to do what he’s about to do if he isn’t at least a little shitfaced.

 

“you changed the keycode again, you fucker. open the door,” ging snarls into the golden speaker on the outside of pariston’s penthouse.

 

pariston leaves ging waiting outside the door for a good minute and a half, watching him carefully through the peephole, before turning the handle and stepping aside.

 

“that was only 25 minutes. you must have been driving very recklessly. i sincerely hope that no one-” ging shuts pariston up by whipping around and pinning him to the back of the closed door. he leans his forehead against the crook of pariston’s neck and takes a deep breath of his powerful cologne.

 

“that shit smells disgusting,” ging grunts as he pulls at pariston’s ridiculous tie and fumbles with the buttons on his soft, designer dress shirt. pariston puts his arms around ging’s neck, pulls back and strokes ging’s stubble with his manicured fingers.

 

“mmm... rude to complain when you look and smell as though you’ve been hiding under a rock for the last six months,” pariston’s smile is wide and satisfied even as the finger he was tracing ging’s lips with gets taken between the archaeologists teeth. ging runs his tongue over every knuckle and pariston wraps his other hand in the tangle of ging’s windswept hair.

 

“shall we move this to the bedroom?” pariston asks on a sigh, eyes narrowing dangerously as ging grabs his thigh, forcing him to wrap his leg around ging’s back.

 

ging pulls his lips off of pariston’s finger and pants against his palm, tongue darting out and tickling the skin there.

 

“the counter would be better. i really just want to fuck you, get some sleep and hit the road again. bed feels to formal.”

 

pariston laughs again and leans his forehead against ging’s, tightening the grip on his hair.

 

“i assure you, ging, there is nothing formal about my bed. i was only trying to be considerate of your old age.”

 

the next five minutes or so consists of ging pulling paritston up, hands around his ass, settling him on his hips and carrying him to his window lined bedroom. they kiss sloppily and vocally with little thought and a lot of teeth. when pariston hits the mattress his jacket is gone along with his tie and shirt and ging is tearing off layer upon layer of his own dirt caked clothing. ging has an awful personality and pariston can hardly wait to drag him through the dirt again and again but damn it all if he doesn’t have a gorgeously sculpted body. strong arms and a sturdy, broad chest.

 

ging leaves his pants on and climbs over pariston, who wraps his arms around the other hunters neck and pulls him down into another kiss. to ging’s constant irritation, pariston is quiet during sex. probably the most quiet he ever is, really, so it’s become a sort of personal mission of ging’s to tear something from the vice-chairman's throat other than soft sighs.

 

with little ceremony he tugs at pariston’s fine leather belt and yanks off the suit trousers. pariston is flushed pink and slender, almost feminine but his aura is dark and foreboding when he’s at his most vulnerable and it makes ging’s throat go bone dry.

 

“you still kiss like a dog,” pariston purrs below him, golden hair spread out against the crisp white pillow, thick, dark fan of eyelashes resting against his red dark cheeks. he’s the embodiment of a contradiction and ging hates puzzles he can’t solve. so far this is the only one he’s run across.

 

“just shut up,” ging shoves two fingers between pariston’s swollen lips, withdrawing them once they’re suitably coated.

 

he’s not gentle with pariston. he’s rough and forceful and selfish. ging drives him into the mattress again and again, grunting and hissing and biting. but pariston takes and holds like a vice and manipulates every motion to subtly work better for him without ging even realizing it. he keeps his eyes open, trained on ging, and shifts his body to positively torture. he contracts and rolls up, wraps his legs just so. ging may be in the dominant position but he hasn’t been in control once since he stumbled into pariston’s flat.

 

pariston finishes first with a delicate moan but ging doesn’t last long after, though he’s considerably more feral sounding. ging falls asleep within minutes but pariston stays awake, propped up on his elbow, gently tracing letters into the dark hair on ging’s chest. kissing his freckled shoulder. running his fingers through dark, thick hair. this man will be his greatest work yet. his crowning achievement. a brilliant historian and generous charity patron crushed under the weight of his own foundations. it makes pariston shiver with anticipation.

 

when the vice-chairman awakes in the morning to an empty bed, he stretches out with a satisfied grin. just like it had been the last time, the distance between this visit and the next will be shorter.


End file.
